You may be justified in wondering why a harpist is writing about an art gallery. I’ve always harboured a fascination with these peaceful places, embellished with a humbling abundance of creativity.

I feel invigorated, stimulated, inspired when I see the wondrous result of months and maybe years of painstaking work. My imagination runs riot pondering the process that’s gone on behind the scenes with vivid clarity. This reflects my journey in music and my own personal artistic creative process with its pretty and not so pretty moments.

Manchester was my stomping ground for many years on and off and I have a love hate relationship with the city. I love the green spaces that can be found in the most unexpected places, dotted haphazardly in and amongst its concrete architectural confusion of buildings. It’s a hectic city, rendered rabid with busy people clamouring to reach their destinations with critical urgency. I feel like a fish out of water when I’m there, jostled by elbows competing to get on malodorous buses, in lack of my bucolic country comforts. On the day of my visit, I managed a personal best of over 13,000 steps. Go me, and Take That, public transport.

I’ve started taking hundreds of photos in galleries, and mobile phones with gargantuan gigabyte memories make that a snap. I sometimes think I’m missing the point but I forget to have my specs to hand and I can’t absorb all the detail and information in a two hour splurge, so one of my favourite things is getting home to gleefully review what my eye didn’t quite capture. The images add a deeper perspective to my visit.

Galleries fascinate me. Why am I irresistibly drawn in by certain works and repelled by others? I used to feel a sense of inadequacy and inferiority about my lack of knowledge and I ridiculed the fact I homed in on details most people consider banal and insignificant. Take Sunday for example. There was a to-do about Da Vinci’s drawings which I didn’t even find. “How could you miss the major exhibition?” I hear you ask. Manchester Art Gallery has so many rarities shrouded in the protective dark chambers of its luxurious Farrow and Ball painted interior that it’s easily done.

Then there’s the allure of evocative trophies from the gift shop, not to mention the café. The waiter and I oohed over the cascading blossom tree confetti we could see through the elongated windows in front of the gallery, providing lush natural contrast to the smooth sandstone building.

I found a partner in crime when I confessed to the waitress I was having cake for lunch. My hedonism reined in, I curbed my enthusiastic selection to two fruity numbers, and my tangy orange and almond cake (no ice cream (sad face)) washed down with the best flat white I’ve had in ages fuelled me for one last zing through the galleries. From top to bottom in twenty minutes, now there’s a challenge. I even did the survey on a tablet for the survey curator, albeit slightly begrudgingly, but a promise is a promise. I’d have rather seen the Da Vinci.

If you’re in Manchester, I can’t recommend Manchester Art Gallery highly enough. Even if you’re not in Manchester, find an excuse to visit! Here’s another handful of heartfelt memories: